


Blind and Blunt

by the_authors_exploits



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, oblivious lovers, oblivious to feelings, that's all i write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:23:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-“Ask him out.”<br/>Darwin’s head snaps up so fast she wonders if he has whiplash. “What?”<br/>“Ask Havoc out. You know, on a date…”-</p><p>They're unaware that they are being so obliviously obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind and Blunt

**Author's Note:**

> I have only ever seen First Class, anything noncanon or oc is purely my ignorance and I apologize

Banshee is the one who points it out, at lunch where Darwin and Havoc are, once again, missing. The other four—Banshee, Mystique, Hank, and Angel—are sat around a round, white and metal table in the near empty cafeteria. This facility is only dedicated to the mutants, and since there aren’t that many, they have everything to themselves. They’re all bent over near identical trays of food, eating and munching and chatting here and there.

“So I think Darwin and Havoc have a…a thing going on.”

Angel chokes on her drink while the other two laugh.

“Yeah, ok, very funny, Banshee!” Mystique snorts as she spoons some mashed potatoes in her mouth.

The curly haired boy blushes and looks at his hands. “I’m being serious!”

“We all have a thing, it’s called friendship.”

Hank offers “Comradeship.”

Angel butts in: “Romance.”

Hank and Mystique both turn a lovely shade of red and Angel rolls her eyes.

“Not you two!!” She thinks for a minute, fingertip placed against her lips. “Well, ok, you two have romance, but it’s not you guys I meant.”

“Yeah, see, they _do_ have a thing!”

Angel nods. “Yeah, though I don’t really think they’ve realized it.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Mystique questions.

“Darwin and Havoc.”

“Armando and Alex.”

Angel and Banshee smirk at each other and, as if their minds are one, speak together: “The two who are completely obliviously in love.”

Mystique shakes her head after a stunned silence. “I don’t see it.”

The Afro-Latino girl rolls her eyes. “You’ve gotta be blind to not see it!”

“I think,” Hank speaks up, “That they might have a certain…chemistry…”

Banshee nods knowingly. “I told you, they have a…a thing…”

Mystique tosses some hair over her shoulder and sips at the apple juice. “I say you’re all crazy.”

**-AxA-**

As the days go by, Mystique feels the compelling need to swallow her words from that night. She’s been paying more attention, and maybe she’s paying too much attention to the two, but everything makes sense.

Alex—Havoc, she reminds herself, must use their mutant names that they chose—is particular with touch. Being in solitary for so long obviously made him wary of any form of human contact. (Human conversation is callous and mean for the most part when it comes to Havoc). But with Darwin it’s different. With Darwin, Havoc nearly throws himself in the other’s way. Arms brushing when there’s no need for it, sitting so very close to each other on the couch, legs pressed against each other beneath lunch tables.

Of course Darwin did his own fair share of pining too. When Havoc talks, Darwin listens. His eyes are always glued to Havoc’s face as if he holds every secret to the world, as if Havoc is the only good in the room. When Havoc wasn’t talking, Darwin still watched him. Chocolate eyes darting to the blond’s face every few seconds accompanied by a small sweet smile; trying to always claim the seat besides Havoc (and if not besides Havoc then across, as if to have a perfect, uninterrupted view of the younger man). Darwin was known to challenge Havoc to a pinball tournament into the late of night, long after everyone else had gone to bed.

There’s so much more, so much more between them that can never be documented in a short amount of time.

And of course they are both so ignorant to how obvious they were being! It’s as if everyone else vanishes when the pair focus on each other, as if everyone else just drifts into the background, into nothing.

So when Mystique returns to the gathering room for her book (Don Quixote, she’s only a quarter of the way through it) at 10:30 at night, she isn’t too surprised to find the both of them still there. She is, however, only mildly surprised by their position. Havoc has his arms folded over his stomach and is slouched sideways against the back of the couch, his feet pressed under Darwin’s thigh; he’s fast asleep, pale eyelids shut and his breathing even and calm. Darwin himself is sitting contentedly with his legs propped up on the coffee table and Don Quixote in his hands. He looks up at Mystique’s presence.

“Hey, Myst, you want your book?”

She shakes her head, cocking a hip and watching them; he returns to the book. “Ask him out.”

Darwin’s head snaps up so fast she wonders if he has whiplash. “What?”

“Ask Havoc out. You know, on a date…”

Darwin frowns, glances at the other boy, and there’s that look in his eyes again. The look where the world revolves around Havoc, the one where Havoc is everything. “What are you talking about?”

Mystique rolls her eyes, stomps into the room, and snatches the book away. “You two are so stupid.”

Darwin doesn’t even comment as she leaves the room; he just stares at the other boy and slowly, very slowly, curls his fingers are the slim ankle that is by his thigh.

**-AxA-**

They don’t get the chance to go on a date. Darwin dies—is killed, Mystique reminds herself, because that’s what happened, he was killed, he was forced to swallow that power, it’s tragic—before they had a chance to even confess. But in those last moments, she can’t help but think they may have realized it without needing words. Their eyes had locked onto each other, Darwin reaching for Havoc and his morphing fading to reveal his eyes, his intense gaze that was always only ever locked on Havoc, on Alex—Alex Summers—the one Armando loved. And Alex…

Alex—for that was who he was, he was Alex, not some mutant with a cool name, he was just Alex—had broke. Raven had watched him collapse to the ground, frozen and unresponsive, eyes riveted to where Armando had disappeared from. No one could make him move, not even when Sean had took hold of his shoulders and murmured quietly to him. He just sat among the rubble on that CIA base, with the rest of the mutants around him. Not only had they lose Angel, they lost Armando.

They stayed there until Charles and Erik came back. Erik had gathered information from everyone while Charles had tried to get a response from Alex. It had taken some time, but Alex came back. Raven thought maybe Charles had used his telepathy to soothe the tormented man. Alex focused on Charles and the tears fell and it had to be the saddest thing Raven had ever seen. Because he didn’t cry like a normal person, he didn’t let out a heartbroken sob like in romance novels or a scream that shattered everyone to their very bones.

No, his face did not screw up in unimaginable pain nor did his brow furrow or his face flush or pale. He merrily stared into Charles’ eyes, his own blue eyes filling with tears and overflowing, down down _down_ his face. He had looked so much like a child, so hurt and confused and scared.

So alone.

**-AxA-**

After Shaw’s defeat and having Erik leave with Mystique, after when there is nothing left to occupy his time, Alex feels himself slipping. Avenging Armando’s death wasn’t as satisfying as he had hoped, especially with the loss of Erik and Mystique and the fact that Charles is now confined to a wheelchair. Alex almost feels guilty for wanting to get revenge, if it cost them so much what was the point?

Alex sighs into the cold autumn air; it’s only 5:13 in the morning, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon and trees, warming what it touches even if autumn is fast approaching. It’s almost comforting, especially considering the sleepless nights Alex suffers through. Night after night, as his eyes shut all he see is Armando’s face, Armando’s eyes, the soft hue of red—of Alex’ power, Alex is a murderer, Alex killed Armando—the soft hue breaking past the dark rock morph Armando had taken up. Protection, but it’s hard to protect yourself from what is on the inside.

Poetic; Alex scoffs. Emotions, disease, supercharged energy rings…

He curls up against the iron railing on the balcony, sniffles. How stupid he had been to think he could help, to think he could cover Armando. How stupid and helpless and utterly guilty. All he can ever do is harm, that’s all he does. He knows.

“You should be in bed.”

Alex barely moves. He knew sooner or later Charles would’ve shown up. Charles could only block out so much for so long. Alex shrugs from the balcony.

“Can’t sleep.”

Charles wheels closer, pass the large four-poster bed that is too soft, too warm, too empty for Alex’s liking; the low light of the sun glinting off the metal rims of the wheelchair makes Alex shudder. It’s irrational to think that it is his fault Charles is paralyzed, but he still does. Believes it’s his fault, it is his fault, he wanted revenge for his other mistake. For killing Armando. A hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he flinches some; he doesn’t have the energy to push the hand away, to tell Charles to f-off.

“Your thoughts are loud, Alex.”

“Heh…” He does have the energy, however, to scrub a hand over his face. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Sorry, I’ll try to think quieter next time, Professor.”

“Alex, that is not what I meant.”

And Alex believes him, because the professor has always been honest and caring and supportive. So he lets out another sigh, presses his head against the chilled iron gating, and tries to curl in further against himself.

Charles squeezes his shoulder before releasing; he always knows when people need comfort and when people have had enough. He turns the chair around to head for the door. “I think pancakes will be nice for breakfast, yes? Will you be eating with us today, Alex?”

Alex hasn’t ate for three days. “Maybe.”

“You should; Sean even went out to buy the strawberry syrup you like so much.”

Alex doesn’t remember ever mentioning his love for strawberry covered pancakes; probably a lost thought the professor heard. The professor leaves him alone after that. Alex knows he’s being stupid, that he only knew Armando for two weeks (give or take, it’s all a blur, everything except him bursting into tiny little molecules, floating away on the wind), his death should be nothing.

But it is. It is everything. There was subtlety between them from the start; looks shared, shy smiles, soft touches. Nothing to really stand on, more testing the waters than anything. But the waters were so good. Alex thinks something, _something_ , could’ve come from the subtlety.

A soft wind kicks up, cool and refreshing, and Alex can almost feel that dark skinned hand press against his stomach in passing. He falls into sleep rather quickly after that, scrunched in an awkward position in the corner of the balcony with his arms pressed to his abdomen, as if that can keep the presence of the hand where it is.

**-AxA-**

It’s 3:43 in the afternoon. Those who are left have gathered in one of the many living rooms in Charles’ mansions. Alex is lying on his back on the couch, an arm thrown over his eyes as the clock ticks, and Sean and Hank are playing a game of cards near the window; they’re pretty sure he’s sleeping, which is good since the professor had informed them Alex hadn’t been sleeping. Alex had complained of a migraine when he finally showed up an hour or so ago, so the other two try to be as quiet as possible. That’s why it’s so easy to pick up on Charles’ wheelchair squeaking down the hall and a set of feet following close behind.

Sean and Hank exchange a look, before glancing at the shifting Alex. But the blond settles down as a body comes around the corner. They recognize him immediately and Sean’s seat topples over when he stands abruptly. Alex startles awake from the noise and Sean isn’t sure if he’s more scared of Alex’s anger at being woken up or Alex’s reaction to who’s in the doorway. When Alex realizes no one is looking at him, both sets of eyes staring straight at the door, he turns to see—

“Hey, sleeping beauty. Miss me?”

—Armando. Charles is behind him, a huge grin on his face.

“I found him repairing on the lawn.” Charles’ grin grows wider at Alex’s stupefied face. “We should’ve known a little heat can’t kill an adaptor like Armando.”

Alex is up and across the room quick enough, hands slowly grazing over Armando’s grey shirt, over Armando’s biceps, his wrists, brushing his hands, coming back up their path to rest against Armando’s chest; there’s a steady heartbeat under Alex’s right palm, Armando’s heartbeat, steady and calm and tangible. _He’s real real real, alive!_ Alex wants to laugh, he wants to laugh and laugh and laugh and never stop because Armando is here, Armando is alive, Armando is—

So he kisses him. He balls his hands in that grey T and toes against the ground to reach the other’s lips. Armando seems taken aback, but responds quickly. He wraps an arm around Alex’s waist and brushes a hand through the blond hair. Armando tastes of lemonade and Alex can’t figure out why, but he doesn’t care. He’s not wasting any time anymore, not while Armando is right here.

They pull away shortly; it was a sweet and fairly chaste kiss. Alex buries his face against Armando’s shoulder and lets out a shaky breath.

“I thought you were dead… I thought—I had…”

“I’m not dead, Alex. Gonna take more than that to get rid of me, ok?” Armando tightens his grip on the other boy and glances at Charles; Charles merrily smiles and backs out of the room, beckoning the two others across the room to follow him.

As they slip out of the room, Sean elbows Hank and whispers sagely: “I told you they had a thing.”


End file.
